


We Are Star Stuff

by flyninthetardis



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Companion!John, M/M, Time Lord!Sherlock, Who!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyninthetardis/pseuds/flyninthetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His whole life John felt as though he were half asleep.  It took an alien with peter pan syndrome and (possibly Asperger’s) to help him wake up.<br/>John found himself hoping his new friend never managed to get him “home” again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Star Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> betaed by earlgreytea68.  
> You are incredible.This story wouldn't be half as good without you.  
> so much love.  
> thanks to Radculas for letting me use her art as an Icon

****

 

When He woke, He was in silence. Horrifying silence. He got up off the floor with a groan. He looked around the empty capsule and tried to collect his thoughts.

 _Well, we did it._ He thought, _We won._ But the victory felt hollow. The Universe was safe, but at what cost? Logically, He knew the others had to be stopped. He would probably do it again if he had to, _but was it really worth it?_ A traitorous part of his brain whispered, _Were the lives of people you’ve never even met and probably wouldn’t even like worth the deaths of your dearest friends? Your own brother even?_

He shook the thoughts out of His head. What’s done was done and He would just have to live with it. There really was no use dwelling on the things you couldn’t fix.

Might as well get a change of clothes. His current ones were far too small for His new body. He'd never regenerated before, so, this should be an interesting experience at least. The thought cheered him a little, but not much.

The capsule was an older model with a smaller wardrobe than He was used to but that was alright, as this iteration didn't seem as taken with clothes as the last one was. He chose a simple dark grey suit with a black shirt. He tied the laces of his new Italian leather loafers, and returned to the console room.

He spun a dial, flipped a switch and set the coordinates to random. Anywhere was better than here.

The landing was rather rough but that was to be expected, since He was her only pilot now.

He ignored the pang in His chest at the thought.

Bouncing toward the door, He caught sight of The Coat.

It was stylish, flamboyant and His brother would have hated it.

He donned it immediately and dashed outside with a grin on his face.

 

_Helmand Province early twenty first century._ He identified His surroundings.

“Oh, _Dull_.” He sighed. The men at His feet were all dead. Ambush most likely.

 _Well, all but one._ He amended but the barely alive doctor would be long dead before any help could arrive.

Turning on His heel, He made for the capsule again.

 _You’re not just going to let him die are you?_ Protested a voice his head, _After all the needless death you’ve witnessed?_ He found He could not argue with that logic, so, He returned to the captain’s side.

“I’ve got to stop being so _nice_ all the time.” Hemuttered, “Up you go.” and picked up the dying man and carried him over His Shoulder.  

            With a graceful pivot (and it _was_ extremely graceful, despite carrying a 70 Kilogram soldier plus gear) he headed back to his capsule. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

 

John opened his eyes and recognized his surroundings instantly. He was in an operating room at Bart’s _._ And _what_ was he doing lying down? Clearly he had a patient that needed him.

He tried to sit up, but a long white hand pushed him down again.

“No,” said a voice above him, “You’ll do permanent damage to that shoulder.”

He liked the voice. It sounded nice.

A bright violet light shined his eyes, temporarily blinding him.

“Whazzat ligh?” he slurred.

“Sonic Probe. Now, close your eyes, the sedatives should be taking effect soon.”

John complied, because, it was a nice voice and he didn’t want to upset it.

The world became a Van Gogh and he knew no more.

 

When John came to again, he was alone in an unfamiliar bedroom. It was Spartan in design with dark green walls and a wood desk in a corner. On top of which he found his fatigues neatly folded (someone had dressed him in a dark blue t-shirt and grey sweats).

None of this made sense. He’d been shot. He knew he’d been shot. Dreams don’t hurt that much.

He shed the unfamiliar shirt to examine his shoulder.

“ _Impossible._ ” He breathed. There was indeed a bullet wound, but it was small and pink, as though it had been there for years.

That was when he remembered a voice. A doctor perhaps?

Surely he must know what’s going on.

John got out of the (quite frankly huge) bed, and made his way toward the door.

Big mistake.

Pain shot through his leg, sending him crashing to the ground. He guessed he wouldn’t be moving any time soon.

 “Damn!” he pounded his fist against the wall. Hitting the wall felt good, but as his many therapists told him, taking out his aggression on inanimate objects was never accomplished anything. With a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down.

When he calmed down, he noticed a crutch gleaming against a wall.  How did he not notice that? _Well whoever’s behind this certainly thought of everything._ He mused, _Now, time for some answers._

The door (thankfully unlocked) led to what seemed like a never ending hallway.

John felt as though he’d been limping down this bloody thing for hours. Something in the hall changed as though it felt hurt to be called a ‘bloody thing’.

“Sorry.” He said aloud. The Hall seemed to accept his apology. _Apologizing to a hallway._ He shook his head and continued on.

 

John finally made his way to a large room that looked not unlike a particularly cluttered living room.

Said messy living room was full of an eclectic array of items (which despite rocking and shaking of the room, seemed to remain in place). The illusion , however, was shattered by a tall dark haired man (looked a bit like slender man, honestly) who was struggling with a circular control panel in the center of the room.

The man noticed him immediately and smiled. “Ah, Captain, good to see you on your feet. Well, sort of.” He gestured toward the crutch. “But, don’t worry. Phantom pains are an entirely normal side effect. Quick, grab the wibbly lever!” he gestured toward said lever.

When John hesitated, the Man rolled His eyes and said “No need to be shy, she likes you.” _She likes you_ , something about that phrase made him think of the semi sentient hallway. Could this place really be alive?

John grabbed the lever as he was told.

This seemed to go on for the next hour or so. He wondered if the Man was testing him somehow. And if he was being tested, was he passing or failing? They worked in tandem with little conversation beyond the occasional push that button or pull this lever.

Eventually, the Man looked up at him and grinned. “Hang on to something!”

Before His words could register, the both of them were flat on their bums. One, right next to another.

For a minute there was utter silence, then, as if on cue the both of them burst into uncontrollable giggles. John managed to surprise himself by throwing his arms around his Host in a hug. The hug was returned enthusiastically until they realized what they were doing. Their laughter tapered off slowly as they let go of each other.

John took a moment to look at his companion. Now that he was looking at him properly, The Man seemed almost… well not beautiful, but definitely striking. His features should not have worked but somehow they did. He was all pale sharp angles and black curls (blacker than anything he’d ever seen, really). His most fascinating feature however, was his eyes. They were some sort of eighth color mixture of green, grey, and blue

 Eventually, the Man got up and helped John to his feet. “That was nuts,” John breathed, “that was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.” He smiled.

“That wasn’t just me.” John pointed out. Somehow this comment spawned more laughter. “So, Erm, Spaceship?”

“Of sorts.” His new friend confirmed.

“So… Are you an Alien? Which is fine by the wa-”

“I know it’s fine.”

“I’m just saying it’s fine. It’s all fine.

“John Watson.” John introduced himself.

“I know.” He handed him back his dog tags.

“You’re supposed to tell me _your_ name, you know.” John wondered if the man was being purposefully difficult.

“What makes you so sure I even _have_ a name?”

“Everyone is called something.”

“They would call me Freak, unless they needed me, they called me Consultant.” He suggested.

“If I ever meet this ‘they’ that you speak of-”

“No need. They’re dead.” His expression became unreadable, so, John decided to drop the subject.

“Since you don’t have a name that’s not completely rubbish, I’ll have to come up with one for you.” He grinned.

“No,” the Alien groaned, “you’ll probably just pick something inane like Benny, or Martin.”

Now _that_ was rude. He should be given a little more credit. This Man needed a name that sounded the way He looked. Something stylish and cunning, something unique.

Unable to come up with such a name, John decided to go with humor.

“Actually I was thinking Sherlock. What, with that hair and all.” Sherlock being an old English word for blonde. 

“Ironic, but Subtle.” He approved, “Sherlock it is.” His lips formed the name as though speaking it quietly to himself. And nodded in approval.

“So, now that’s settled, do you usually make a habit of abducting people?”

“No, of course not. It used to be me and my brother, but he’s gone now.” Sherlock’s voice went quiet, “they’re all gone.”

There it was again. That look. A lifetime of therapists taught him better than to pry, but John couldn’t help but wonder. What happened to him? Surely he couldn’t mean it when he said all gone, could he? Well, he still had one friend. If he wanted him.

John took the alien’s hand in his. “Hey,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

Sherlock gave him a quick smile.

“John,” he said softly, then perking up, “you’re not using your crutch!”

“Oh.” He shook his head. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Well, it’s high time I got you home.” Sherlock bounded toward the door. “Your shoulder’s healed up quite nicely, your leg is free of shrapnel, and your limp is gone. If you’re lucky, no one will have even noticed your absence.

John tried not to feel disappointed. What was he expecting? For Sherlock to keep him? To take him on all kinds of adventures across the universe?

...

...

Sherlock dashed out the door, only to come back in 15 seconds later, smiling sheepishly.

“On second thought, we might have to take a small detour.”

* * *

 

 


End file.
